


catch and release

by eternal_elenea



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: Angst, M/M, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-04
Updated: 2011-11-04
Packaged: 2017-10-27 12:04:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/295657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eternal_elenea/pseuds/eternal_elenea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>I hope you'll take it / I know you're faking just a little bit / No need to fight it 'cause you're giving in.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	catch and release

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [](http://mimsicality.livejournal.com/profile)[ **mimsicality**](http://mimsicality.livejournal.com/)  just after her 21st birthday and utterly due to her constant, enabling disturbance of me. Title and subtitle from [Catch and Release](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j08iHBqiavU) by Silversun Pickups.

He gives in too easily when Andy's like this. He's tired and it's been hours on the court, hours of missed balls and curses mumbled just under Andy's breath, hours trying to snap Andy out of it before slumping his own shoulders and resigning himself to the fact that it's just one of those days. It happens sometimes – sometimes it doesn't click, the seams show, they all wonder what the hell is going on (and he keeps handing Andy balls to serve). He'd have thought it would get easier over time, that Andy would learn not to beat himself up over one bad day, but it's gotten harder instead. (It's hard to convince Andy that he doesn't have to be perfect to be, well, _perfect_.)

By the time they get back to the hotel, Andy's strung tight, teeth clenched, snapping at every word, scratching his fingernails over his newly shorn scalp until Dani can almost see the raised skin, see where Andy's bloodied his knuckles against the strings of his racket. It's just at the edge, where Andy doesn't want to admit how far gone he is, but it's buzzing under his skin and he half-stomps through the lobby, stabbing at the button for the elevator. Dani waves Matt and AI aside as soon as the car stops, telling them to disappear for the evening, and follows behind Andy. He doesn't speak, stands beside Andy in the elevator and watches the set of Andy's shoulders as they heave. He swipes the key card to open their suite and shoves Andy inside, bodily. The door's barely begun to swing closed before Andy's pushing him against it, fists knotting against Dani's t-shirt, backwards until the door clicks soundly, until Dani's breathless, until the blood on his knuckles has dripped onto Dani's collar bone, the carpet.

There's a moment, just a moment, whether neither of them are quite sure what will happen next: blood thrumming through Andy's veins and Dani's powerless, won't do anything until Andy either punches him or kisses him. He doesn't close his eyes, stares up into Andy's, daring him (wants Andy to know exactly what he's doing, doesn't want to ever let him forget who it is that's underneath him). He's ended up with a bloody nose, a bruised jaw, a black eye, playing this game; it's a dangerous one, the line too close, just before the cliff's edge, and Andy's barely in control of himself. Not in control at all, Dani learns only seconds later, when Andy presses his lips to Dani's own and his breathing's heavy, savage, as he nips at Dani's mouth, lost. He pushes up against Dani and he's sweaty, arms bracketing Dani's sides, and the heat is consuming. Dani tilts his head upwards, can't do anything but kiss back, desperate.

Andy's all over him, all around him, ravaging his mouth before Dani can form another coherent thought and he hears a moan come out of his own mouth as Andy gets the angle just so; he lifts his head up so that Andy can get as his neck, eyes fluttering shut. He's given up on not enjoying this, though he's not sure if he ever really resisted it, even the first time, years ago now. It's simpler to just give in, easier to kiss back, to let Andy maneuver him to the bed (to bite his lip, stop the slight gasp of pain, as Andy pushes two fingers into him). It hurts sometimes: it hurts to turn himself over to Andy, hurts to look up into Andy's eyes and wish that he saw tenderness. But, it's Andy and that alone has always been more than enough for Dani.

Even if it wasn't, Dani would still know that this is just part of the job.

  
 **(** He still remembers catching the older boys going at it at the academy when things got rough, remembers seeing the tussling, the yelling, and, a few times, the fucking. He remembers the first time he saw two of them pressed together in the locker room, the noises coming out of their mouths, obscene in the dim light. He remembers the first time one of the older boys took him aside after an especially tough practice and showed him how easy it was to "release energy" and he remembers how he, in turn, had told Andy.

It had been passed down from the older boys to the younger ones, over and over, at the academy: a mindset, a tradition. _Don't let it get to you_. Anything was acceptable to get over the lows and to sustain the highs; a lot looked over in the name of youth and adrenaline. _This is tennis_. **)**

  
This is what he tells himself in the hours afterward, when he's curled up under the sheets and Andy's on the other side, spent, snoring softly. He tells himself that it's only work; it's just professional; it's nothing more than venting energy. He tells himself this as he rubs over the purple bruising on his wrists, as he paints his fingers over the bites scattered across his collar bone, as he shudders at how empty he feels. It's just work, he thinks, and he ignores the way his stomach flutters in the mornings when he wakes with Andy next to him, arm thrown over Dani's waist, sunlight staining his cheekbones, and the way that it turns at night when Andy unbuttons Dani's pants, skates a hand across his hip, possessive.

  
 **(** The first time that they had sex was so long ago that Dani would barely remember if it hadn't been seared into his mind with Andy's open-mouthed pants, his wide eyes, the way that he looked underneath Dani. They'd only been boys then, seventeen, maybe, travelling around Europe on their own for the first time, playing juniors matches, exploring cities, staying in shitty hotels with only a queen bed to share. Dani remembers how easy it had been to take Andy's face in his hands, to close his eyes and kiss him, after they'd both lost their opening matches. He remembers how willingly, how sweetly, Andy had responded, still shy.

He can't remember when their relationship changed into this. **)**

  
They've always been best friends before anything else: that has never changed, will never change. Even when nothing else is working in either of their lives, Andy and Dani are still crowded together on a sofa somewhere, playing Pro-Evo. It's easy for them, comfortable, and they've, somehow, never gotten bored of each other. Andy's quick to tease and Dani's quick to smile and they instantly click. Even the moments of silence, the ones that come at two-thirty in the morning, finishing the last of their homework frantically or talking strategy for the next day's match, settle agreeably between the two of them; there's barely been a moment of awkwardness since Andy sat down at dinner next to Dani on his second night in Barcelona. They've grown together like brothers, have been inside of each others' pockets for the better part of nine years, and, even now, (especially now) they know every quirk, every little piece, of the other. It's been nine years and they've never fought, never had a major disagreement, never hurt the other.

  
 **(** Dani tries to forget about how he felt when Andy went off to play professionally and he went to Miami for university. But, despite himself, he remembers Andy slipping farther and farther away, returning fewer and fewer phone calls, until Dani wasn't sure if he was supposed to keep calling at all. He remembers scrabbling over himself to get to the communal tv for every single one of Andy's matches and staring at the scores whenever they weren't on. Sometimes, Andy looked exhausted, Dani thought, like he'd been on tour for ten years already, had gone through so much without Dani at his side and Dani remembers the sinking feeling in his chest, remembers how badly he wanted to be right there beside Andy. (Other times, he sees Andy smiling and gorgeous and bright-eyed and he looks away because he wishes he was there even more.)

He remembers the calls that he did get, between training sessions or _bathroom breaks_ , and the way that Andy would barely say anything, would hum through entire conversations, not-quite-listening; the way that Dani would tell tales of his college matches and Andy would just one-up them without a second thought. "Oh, met Roger the other day," he would say and Dani would quiet, flabbergasted, wondering how he was supposed to make Andy care about him instead of _Roger Federer_.

And, then, he remembers the times when he finally got to hear Andy's laugh and how they would giggle over the telephone like schoolboys – remembers the yearning for days afterwards. **)**

  
At breakfast the next morning, Dani barely says anything, stumbles his way through a conversation with Matty before sitting down at the table and picking at his sausage. Andy's preoccupied with choking down his protein shake and, for once, Dani's grateful that the weight of Andy's attention isn't turned on him. He glances towards Andy, drinking, laughing, mimicking gagging noises and mourning why he ever became a professional athlete at all – "all these fucking protein shakes" – and Dani smiles, despite himself. He can't help how it widens when Andy catches his eye, grins, and he can feel everything else melting away besides the tugging at the corners of his own lips. He averts his eyes, quickly; pulls at his collar; hastily forks a piece of cantaloupe into his mouth, grimaces at the sweetness.

It's still too easy to get lost inside of Andy, Dani thinks, inside of his charm and his laugh and the light in his eyes. He still laughs infectiously, just the same as he did that very first night: eyes crinkled up and his eyebrows and voice rising simultaneously, like a pint-sized, good-humored gremlin. Dani remembers that it had been one of the very first things that he noticed about Andy and that within minutes he'd been drawn in, unable to turn away. He's still drawn in, still childishly enthralled with this man who he's known for so long, still can't turn away from him, no matter what happens between them. Dani's not blind: he knows how much he lets Andy get to him, but he's done trying to change it, just tries to make himself not care anymore. (This is supposed to make it better, he thinks, but it never does.)

Andy turns towards him, drops his arm around Dani's shoulders. Dani flinches.

  
 **(** Whenever Andy tells the story of how they first met, it's always about their very first dinner together in Spain. It's a story of Andy being the lost boy, barely out of his hometown, scared and alone, couldn't speak two words of Spanish, and about Dani, the fairy-tale hero, saving Andy from his anguish. It's a story that everyone gobbles up, too easily imagining Andy as an awkward, gangly boy with limbs too long and a Copperfield-esque demeanor.

It's not terribly far off, except for the fact that it was Andy that inserted himself into Dani's life and not the other way around; Andy who had pulled a chair up next to Dani and started making jokes about how "horrible" the food was, laughing that charmingly gremlin laugh of his. But, there's a part to the story that Dani never mentions, the _very_ first story:

Before the dinner, before ever meeting Andy or smiling at him or shaking his hand, Dani had seen Andy on the practice courts. He'd been caressing backhands down the line and slicing short little dropshots and Dani had stood there for minutes, staring. He watched Andy as he smiled at a perfectly placed forehand and then, moments later, berated himself viciously for a shot that just clipped the tape. The clay had gotten everywhere, covering Andy's shoes and his socks and (somehow) his hair, rust-colored and shiny in the sunlight. The very first time Dani saw Andy, it had taken him less than thirty seconds to notice how stunningly talented Andy was and then another twenty to realize that Andy hadn't spoken with any other boys. He was probably a bit of a jerk, Dani thought, and turned away. **)**

  
The next few weeks are a whirlwind, bogged down in long days of training and watching matches, preparing tactics, talking to Andy about what he needs to focus on in the lead up to the Open. Dani barely has a moment to think edgewise and it's so easy to pretend that nothing at all has changed, especially because it's _Andy_. (And, at the same time, it's nearly impossible: he can feel the way he's started to stiffen up automatically when Andy gets near, has to remind himself to calm the fuck down before Andy notices.) Dani's so _tired_ and he catches himself drifting off so often, laughing a moment too long at Andy's jokes, staring when he's not supposed to be, wanting to reach over and cling onto Andy. _I don't know when you were gone_ , Dani thinks, _but I missed you_.

  
 **(** That's why it's so simple to let himself be led to Andy's room after the loss in Montreal. He knows it's a bad idea, tells himself that he needs to stop, that he doesn't want this, but the real truth, the worse truth, is that he _does_. Andy's always gotten too deep and, even though it hurts, Dani still can't say no. (Sometimes he catches himself thinking it, wanting to let his lips form the letters, but they stick inside of his throat like honey. Andy looks at him, searchingly, places a hand at the base of his skull and Dani—)

He clutches onto Andy, presses his face into Andy's neck as he rides Andy's cock, wretches noises out of Andy and swallows them down like fragmented memories. When Andy comes, breathing _Dani Dani Dani_ , he can almost let himself believe that this is more than just a job. **)**

  
There's literally nothing to do in Cincinnati except for to sit at the Applebee's and down beers until he can't see straight anymore. It's been a good week, a very good week, and they're all loose, still hyped up from the win. They laugh and talk and celebrate and Dani, for once, doesn't think too hard, sits across from Andy and smiles up at him, takes another sip of his beer. The team filters out slowly after a few hours, heading to bed or off to call home, but Dani doesn't have anywhere to go or anyone to call, so he stays. Andy's still there too, sitting on the other side of the booth with his legs propped up; his phone is cradled up to his ear and he's facing away from Dani, speaking into it quietly. Dani opens his mouth to say something, get Andy's attention back on him, but his tongue doesn't really co-operate: he might be a little drunk, he thinks.

"Andy," Dani says and Andy turns towards him finally, hangs up the phone with a fond whisper. He looks a bit concerned, but Dani smiles at him, reassuring. Andy looks nice, Dani thinks, even if he's not smiling back. The lights are dim and terrible and the whole place smells like grease and Dani scrunches his nose. He feels fuzzy and he wonders how many beers he's had now. Andy looks really nice.

"Hi," he says, stupidly, and Andy sighs, comes around the table, helps Dani out of his seat. Dani thinks about resisting, convincing Andy that they should stay for one more beer, but he lets himself be half-carried, half-dragged back out of the restaurant. It's chilly, even in August, and the breeze whips across his face; the noise of the highway filters through the trees and Dani can see little bits of light flashing past. He tucks his head into Andy shoulder, mumbles softly at the warmth of skin and the brush of worn cotton.

Dani doesn't really remember how they get to the room, but Andy's nudging Dani's body so that he can get his key out of his pocket. The door swings open after several moments of fumbling and they stagger inside, nearly pitching forward into the couch. It's dark, except for the harsh light of the city filtering through the window, falling around them in Bengal stripes; the air conditioning is on full blast, the metal openings shining in the corner of Dani's eye. He's got goosebumps and he runs his fingers over Andy's arm to see if Andy's got them too.

Andy doesn't, his skin near-fevered under Dani's palm, and Dani suddenly becomes even more aware, the cold air sobering. He's draped across Andy, supported by Andy's arm, pressed against his side. Dani can feel the heat of Andy's body underneath his own and Andy's breath against the top of his head, can feel the press of Andy's fingers against his ribs, holding him close. He thinks that this is the moment when he should be stiffening, should be pulling away, but he doesn't. _Andy_ , he thinks and he snuggles into Andy's shoulder, looks up to find Andy watching him. Andy's eyes are warm, his gaze as fond as his voice had been on the phone, and Dani smiles. Andy's lips quirk back at him.

It's _too easy_ and Dani feels damned as he rises onto his toes, presses against Andy fully, kisses him a little sloppily. He loops his arm around Andy's shoulders, raises himself up so that he can get at Andy's mouth properly. _Love you_ , he thinks (aloud, maybe) and presses his other hand against Andy's pulse point, moves himself so they're toe to toe, chest to chest, hip to hip.

"Dani," Andy says, breathless; his arms grip Dani's waist. "Dani, what?" He pulls at Dani until he can look down at Dani's face; keeps him steady an arm's length away. He's smiling a little bit, like he thinks that this is just another joke Dani's playing; he smiles just as warmly as his skin had been moments ago, buttered and honey-gold. He tries to set Dani down on the couch, muttering about alcohol and needing sleep, but Dani clutches at him, presses his palm against the back of Andy's hand on top of his waist, holds it there; won't let go. Dani's not sure what he says, but it's insistent – it _feels_ insistent – bubbling up inside and out of his lungs before he's even thought it. He knows he's drunk, but that doesn't make it any less true (ridiculous, psychotic, completely mad) when he says "iloveyou", tries to bring Andy's mouth to his again.

Andy easily holds him away this time and Dani can still feel the urgent press of Andy's fingers into his ribcage, even harder now. He's scared to look up, terrified at the idea of Andy's expression; wants to... turn away, stop talking, throw up, ( _be with Andy_ ).

Andy sets Dani onto the couch and Dani doesn't protest anymore; sits there, limply. He turns his head, once, towards Andy as Andy walks out the door. Dani can't see his face, can't bear to see the rejection written there – this time in ink. He hears the underlying anguish in Andy's voice, barely broken, still monotone, (and Dani hates the fact that he can hear it, wishes he didn't know Andy like he does): "I'm with Kim, Dani. I love her."

The door clicks behind him.

  
 **(** Dani knows what rejection feels like. He's been rejected enough (too many times) already: coaches tutting at his returns, mumbling in the background how he just doesn't have _it_ ; Spanish girls laughing at his Venezuelan slang and his sun-bleached hair; childhood friends he'd come home to after years in Spain to find out that they'd moved on without him, had wives and kids and jobs.

Rejection by Andy, too, once before.

When Andy had visited Dani at university, the first time, they'd lain on the couch for hours, catching up, laughing, bickering. Dani hadn't seen Andy in a year (and it felt longer). He had been so glad that Andy was there; it was suddenly like nothing had changed between them. He remembered the way that he'd _missed_ Andy, half-a-world away. He'd leaned over, as they sat together on the couch with controllers in their laps, and kissed him.

Andy had chuckled after pushing Dani away, had wiped at his own mouth even though there was nothing there except for the phantom pressure of Dani's lips. Dani had laughed too, strained, half-a-second later; bumbled his way through an excuse. He thinks he'd mentioned chapstick, but can't remember over the sound of echoes that had suddenly fogged up his ears. **)**

  
Dani wakes up with a migraine and a memory that he wishes he didn't have. He covers his eyes with his hands, wonders if he can just skip everything that he's supposed to do today; thinks about climbing out the window instead of facing Andy downstairs. His head pounds. There's aspirin, lying on the table, and Dani reaches towards it, wonders who put it there. He unscrews the cap and dry-swallows the pills, feeling the cotton in his throat as they go down. He winces, stumbles over towards the sink, gathers some water between his palms and drinks at it – splashes some more over his face.

It feels the same as his morning routine in some ways and he finds himself stretching, hears the creaking in his limbs. It's almost normal: normal, except his entire body is stiff like he's been sleeping upside down; except for the fact that he'd kissed Andy last night without Andy kissing him back; except for the feeling in his stomach like he's been corroded through. But, the sun is still too bright, he's still in a hotel room instead of anywhere that might resemble "home", he still can still touch his toes when he reaches down.

Dani thinks about what he'll do after this, after tennis, and, even though everyone had told him about this world, full of possibility, he can't think of anything. He can imagine himself in any city, in any part of the world – he just can't see himself there without Andy. He supposes he could go back to Tenerife, go to work in his father's business, and the vision emerges from his mind, beautiful and safe and cold. He didn't think he'd be doing this so soon.

The phone rings. Dani's tempted to ignore it, feels like a coward as he reaches towards the mute button. Dani picks it up.

"Not still hungover, are you?" Andy says cheerfully. _Cheerfully_. Dani wonders if he's dreaming, why Andy's not yelling, how the first words out of his mouth are anything but "you're fired".

"Dani?" he says, and the tone is so different than it had been last night (and the pain blooms again at the bottom of Dani's stomach). "You took the aspirin?"

"Andy, I..."

"Get your arse down here. Drills today and these two are shite at it. Five minutes, Dani."

The click of the telephone is eerily similar to the click of the door and Dani stares at it too, disbelieving.

  
 **(** There had been another phone call in the summer of 2010, a completely different phone call that was still nearly the same. Dani had picked up the phone as he wiped his forehand with his sweatband, not checking caller ID, and the first thing he heard was, "they're really shit at drills."

Dani was in Venezuela again, had been since he'd finished university a year before. Mostly, though, he hasn't done anything, just wandered around his childhood streets, still dusty and filled with children, and spent time with his family. He'd played a few futures tournaments and Davis Cup ties, in between; even flown up to Houston qualifying draw in April before pulling a muscle and having to withdraw. Dani knew that it wasn't going anywhere, that he wasn't cut out for going pro, but it was still hard to realize it slowly, through bad losses and too many injuries and always-hope. Dani didn't know what he wanted besides that and so he drifted, between the house and the valley and the town square, between his parents and his friends, between tennis and business. It was easier to give himself time.

Andy had called on one of these excursions, when Dani had gone down to the nearby club to teach a kids' clinic. It had been a while since the last call, but Dani was used to that by now; he'd learned to take what he got, even if it wasn't nearly enough. "Andy," he said, easily, in response.

"Alex was fine, but now he's left. And Miles isn't here. 'm stuck with Matt and Andy and neither of them knows _any_. Can't hit a ball either." Andy let out a slight huff and Dani could imagine him crossing a single arm over his chest, even as he was sitting down, holding a phone.

Dani can hear him shift in his seat before he speaks again, suddenly uncertain. "Dani..."

"Could you... come up, maybe?"

Dani wants to tell Andy that he doesn't even know what that _means_. He doesn't know if that means for a week or a few months or Andy's career; he doesn't know what that makes him in Andy's life; he doesn't know if it'll work, even a little. He says yes. **)**

  
Everything's still... the same. They're still just Andy and Dani. They spend their days on the court, in the gym, at meals between matches, squabbling over the playstation. It's just the same as if the clock has been rewound to before Cincinnati; Dani doesn't know how he got _this fucking lucky_.

But, the first time that Andy casually slings an arm around Dani, Dani literally jumps. Andy looks confused and then... cautious, sheepish, like he feels bad that he's doing this to Dani when Dani's the one who's done it to him. Dani doesn't know how Andy finds a way to take responsibility for everything, but somehow he's even found it here, when, so glaringly, it's Dani who fucked it all up. As Andy turns to look back towards him like he needs to be forgiven, there's a frisson of guilt in Dani's gut, climbing up into his throat.

He tries to make it better between them, even though Andy acts like nothing is wrong at all. He tries, but it's still hard; Andy's little touches and smiles and laughs still ignite something in Dani, even as he tries to dampen it. Dani _wants_ to go back to when it didn't matter so much, when Andy's every action didn't make Dani think of Bengal stripes and honey-gold warmth and hipbones pressed together – he can't. It does get a little easier as Dani gets used to the reel of images in his mind; as Andy learns to stop touching him so much. But, it's hard to unlearn so many years of habits – Andy still brushes their shoulders together without thinking, he still catches himself being overly-aware of Andy, they both turn to smile at each other first.

  
 **(** It almost feels just the same as it did when they were first learning each other: the way that their hands would brush accidentally and they would spring away, wonder if it was alright. It's like the first times they'd lain out their sleeping bags and talked through the night, working through pauses and stumbled words and mixed accents (or Dani falling asleep mid-sentence and Andy lying, silently awake, in the dark). He's careful, again, now, over-thinking every little movement, touch, thought, just like he had at the beginning. It scares Dani how much their relationship reminds him of when they didn't know each other at all and wonders how nine years can change, seemingly, to minutes. **)**

  
Everything settles in Dani's mind, eventually. It's not the same, still. It won't ever be the same, Dani thinks in retrospect, but they're still best friends. Dani's grateful that he has that, at least, because Andy could have pushed him so much farther away. They can still play football-tennis and have forfeits and grin at each other from across the room, can still jab the other with an elbow or brush their knees together under the table. Somehow, they've made it comfortable.

There are a few crossed wires, now and again. Out of habit, maybe, Dani follows behind Andy after a _terrible_ practice, months later. Andy turns before he even reaches the elevator and his voice is wrecked, words clawing their way out of his throat: "Go _away_ , Dani." Dani stops dead in his tracks, stunned, and watches the elevator doors close behind Andy.

It's fine, though, even the small issues between them. Dani had liked, before, how untroubled their relationship had been, but he almost prefers it now. Now, it's okay to be imperfect. They're allowed to be upset, allowed to want to change, allowed to be in the wrong sometimes. He feels strangely free, let loose of an unseen net that he didn't realize was there until he'd escaped. Dani's spent his life not wanting very many things. He wanted tennis, somehow, wanted to capture the sport in a jar of fireflies and have it with him forever; he wanted acceptance, to find this inexplicable sense of freedom, to find a home, maybe; he wanted Andy, a strange little boy that he had held onto and never let go of. He thinks about this, all of the things that he has and the things that he doesn't have and that he wants, could want, used to want. It's more than enough, he thinks, in the end.  



End file.
